


Living in the Real World

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-19
Updated: 1999-03-19
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Happiness gives way to a dose of reality... This story is a sequel toBlue Moon.





	Living in the Real World

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Living in the Real World

# Song Cycle #5:

# Living in the Real World

**WARNINGS: for... (all together now!) "the dollar/rand exchang..." <Oooops! Wrong litany! <g>> How about: "More PG-rated M/M angst." But this is new and improved angst-- now with added plot! ;-) ** Follows "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?", "The Beat of a Different Drum", "On My Own", and "Blue Moon." 

* * *

_This piece has no song. No really, I mean it this time! ;-) I finally realized that I was trying desperately to come up with a song that fit the story that was developing in my head and eventually even _I_ realized how silly that was, so I stopped. Don't get used to it, they take too much work this way... and it's murder to come up with your own title!_

Hey, don't look at me, _you're_ the ones who wanted more, who couldn't leave the happily-ever-after fade into the sunrise bit alone. Well I hate to tell you, but there's a reason you fade out on happily- ever-after. Sometimes reality *bites*... and pain and misery are an author's livelihood. Deal. ;-) 

Besides, you know me by now. I'm not gonna _leave_ them that way... what kind of a sadist do you think I am? Anyway, Dief's still in quarantine, poor thing... and if you think I'd torture *him*, you've got another think coming!  <g>

* * *

# Living in the Real World

**by Dianne T. DeSha (a.k.a. "la Mercenaire")  
**   
_Cat.Goddess@pobox.com_   


* * *

This morning at the lake was wonderful, incredible-- the realization of a dream that, impossibly, miraculously, you shared. It was as if no one and nothing could ever touch us again.... 

Then we had to return to the real world. 

Driving back we didn't realise it yet, still sitting there just _looking_ at each other every chance we got... every emotion displayed on our faces and every one of them some shade of joy. At every signal light you'd turn to me and... Oh Ray, you have the most beautiful smile.... 

And the horns blaring behind us would startle us out of our mutual trance and you'd laugh as I blushed and you turned back to the road. 

You dropped me at the consulate, where I'd left my things, and it was so automatic... I was out of the car before I could realise I wanted to say good-bye, that I was going to miss you ridiculously for the next hour or so the way new lovers do. I turned back at a loss and you just smiled at me-- and suddenly everything was all right. 

You pulled away to go back to the house and change and I walked inside grinning like the love-sick fool I was.... 

Constable Turnbull seems as confused as ever, but I feel no urge to enlighten him as I enlist his help in arranging for Diefenbaker's transport, along with the rest of my things left in Paulatak. He is quite eager to help, in his own way, as I draft a formal request to be returned to my old posting-- which he assures me has not been filled in the month I was gone. He even is kind enough to allow me the use of my old office to store my things while I arrange housing, but, as I have only the one bag, I decline. 

Everything is coming together perfectly as I shoulder my bag and prepare to go down and wait for you at the curb.... 

" _Constable_?" 

The look on the Inspector's face is somewhere between shock and offense as she looks me over, as though the explanation for my sudden reappearance is to be found written on my clothing. I find myself snapping to attention without even needing to think, even though it feels odd to be standing so in civilian clothes. 

"Good morning, Inspector." 

"What are you doing here?" 

Surprise has cut directly though the usual courtesies, so I respond in kind. 

"I plan to be staying in Chicago, or rather returning to it, for the foreseeable future. In light of this I have prepared a formal request for the reinstatement of my posting here. I left it on your desk, as Constable Turnbull assures me the position has not yet been filled...." 

That apparently was enough to earn the hapless young constable a momentary glare from the Inspector, although why, I'm not certain. But a second later her eyes are back on me, staring for just a moment, puzzled, before asking: 

"Why?" 

And it's only at that moment-- at that seemingly simple and obvious question-- that it all comes crashing down. 

My mind races through possible answers... and their consequences. We didn't discuss this, we didn't plan, we didn't _think_... we were too busy feeling. 

If the choice were solely mine I would happily-- proudly-- tell her the truth: I've fallen madly in love with a Chicago police detective and I want to be with him for the rest of my life. After all, the RCMP has an official non-discrimination policy, and, even unofficially, admitting this could hardly damage my career any more than the other things I've done for love in the past. 

But the choice is not mine alone. My admission would implicate you as well, and that frightens me. You have a career, a family, friends-- a life. And this might cost you them all. The very thought makes my blood run cold. What are we going to do? 

I realise that the Inspector is still staring at me, waiting for an answer I have no right to give her. So I cite 'personal reasons', which is, after all, the truth, and allow her to assume things went badly between Linda and me. 

She lets it go, for now. She has little choice, but I don't delude myself into thinking that it won't come up again. It's never been a secret that my original posting here was as much a punishment as anything else. Even if people assume the problem is Linda, they will want to know why, given the choice, I would ever return _here_. 

And questions at the consulate will only be the beginning. 

So I stand at the curb, my euphoria gone and my heart aching all over again... until I see a familiar green Buick pull up. 

"Hey, stranger, need a ride?" 

And the smile is back on my face. It will work. Somehow it _has_ to work. 

I get in and immediately feel my hand clasped in yours. I look up and our eyes lock for an endless moment, restating our love more clearly and deeply than any words can. Then you turn back and we pull away. 

"Saw Ma and she was glad to hear you're back. She insisted you come over for dinner tonight." 

I look over, trying to read your face, but I can't. Only there's a certain wariness in your eyes as you ask me: 

"So. How'd things go at the consulate?" 

I assure you that everything went well, that it looks likely I will be able to return to my old post... but the news doesn't seem as comforting as it should. Undoubtedly you have been faced with "Why?" as well. You are far more skilled at dissembling than I, but even you can't avoid such questions forever. 

And you are the one with the price to pay, the stakes to lose. 

I want to ask if you're having second thoughts, but I can't get the words past the knot in my throat. 

It's a sign of trust... or habit... or is it desperation?... that I've not even thought to ask where we're going before now. 

"I'm supposed to work today, but I figure we'll just stop by long enough for me to ask Welsh for some time off, o.k.?" 

You turn back to me and the smile has returned full-force... and with a certain wicked gleam to it this time. I blush and nod, not trusting myself to say a word. 

* * *

I look up, distracted from my thoughts as you swear under your breath, tear the form from the typewriter as though it had personally offended you, crumple it, and send it sailing towards the trash can. You see me watching, roll your eyes dramatically, and feed another sheet into the machine. 

I know you feel badly that we have to stay here until you finish this paperwork, but I don't mind. It's not your fault that the Leftenant was in such a mood today as to insist you catch up before you take any time off. 

I like being here. It reminds me of old times as I sit across the desk watching you work. I find I _like_ just being able to sit and watch you. 

Besides, it gives me time to think. It's not a pleasant thing, but it's necessary. 

Leftenant Welsh welcomed me back with a startled look and the all-encompassing shrug he seems to have adopted in regards to me and my presence here in general. Then he slapped me on the back and suggested that maybe now that I was here I could "whip you back into shape again." I'm not sure quite what he means, but I rather think I'm at least partly responsible for the record speed at which that paperwork is being done. 

Elaine is off today and Detective Huey is out working a case. No one else here will openly question my return, although many of them are obviously wondering. 

What will you tell them? Now is not the place for this discussion, but I need to know. I'm afraid to know. 

After all, when you were arguing for leave you told Welsh you needed to help me settle back in... which is true. As true as the 'personal reasons' I cited. 

And just as evasive. 

I don't blame you, you know. Not at all. I can't even imagine myself in your position to know what I would do. For all your 'loose cannon' attitude, you have a promising career here. _You_ may not fit the common stereotypes, but those labels do come from somewhere. A police force can make life hell for one they feel has somehow turned against them, take it from me, Ray. And in a profession like ours, where fast and reliable back-up can be all that stands between you and a criminal's bullet, contempt can be deadly. 

You pull the last sheet out of the typewriter with a flourish and slam the folder closed around it. Then, with that smile that undermines all my best intentions, you pick up the stack and fairly run to the Leftenant's office door. 

I catch up in time to see you drop the pile triumphantly on his desk, like a child finishing lessons early, and ask if we can go now. The Leftenant looks at you, looks at me, then shakes his head and mutters, "The lengths you'll go to to avoid partnering with Huey...." 

And you just smile at this tacit reinstatement of our unofficial partnership. 

We're in the car again and have barely cleared the block when you ask me where I'm staying. Before I can even answer the radio interrupts and, after a moment's pause, you answer it with a scowl. 

"Yeah, Elaine? I'm off-duty you know." 

"Not anymore you're not...." 

"No way! Ask Welsh...." 

"Listen up, Vecchio, there's been a shooting down Southside. Some little kid got hit by a stray bullet when gangbangers decided to take on some of the 21st. Now things are looking ugly down there, they're worried about a riot, and they've recalled _everybody_ ASAP." 

You swear under your breath and pound the steering wheel with your fist. Then, with your eyes rolled heavenward as if asking for intervention or an explanation, you respond. 

"Got it, Elaine. I'm on my way back." 

You throw down the radio in disgust and turn to me, mouth open to apologise. But I just nod my understanding. With a heartfelt sigh and one more blow to the inoffensive car, you're spinning the wheel and I'm hanging on, eyes closed, as we turn around. 

* * *

By late afternoon the feared riot has not manifested, but neither has the situation been brought under control to the satisfaction of the Chief. 

Through strategic retreats and the general crisis atmosphere, I've managed to avoid being questioned closely by anyone, but the effort is, frankly, beginning to take its toll. While I've finally convinced you to keep your unflattering opinions of your superiors down to the occasional discreetly-muttered-- if generally-improbable-- suggestion, I've accomplished little else in the past few hours except to think myself into more desperate and comfortless circles. 

You must be able to see it because, as you rise to answer yet another summons to the Leftenant's office, you pause to give me a wan smile. 

"There's no reason for you to stay here, Benny. Who knows when they're gonna let us go. Go home." 

And you're gone before I can remind you I don't have a 'home' here anymore. 

But then I realise that's one thing I need to change. 

* * *

Mr. Mustaffi, like Leftenant Welsh, seems oddly unsurprised to see me back. In no time at all I'm reinstalled in my old apartment-- he says the renter he found to replace me moved out within the week. 

As I sit once again on the narrow bed, it's as if nothing has changed, as if the whole last month was merely a dream or simply a vacation and now I am back. But it's not true. Everything has changed. 

I miss Canada still; I don't think that will ever change, and I find a certain perverse comfort in that. But the pain is much less now. I think that the trip, as hard as it was without you, has done me a world of good. Maybe that's all I need, a trip back every so often, to keep that part of my soul intact. Maybe next time I can take you with me.... 

I can't help it. Thoughts of you, happy, joyous thoughts, now turn almost immediately to fear, worry, uncertainty. 

I returned to this apartment because I needed time to think. Ray, my love, we haven't thought this through. Nothing would make me happier than to be with you night and day, but where? How? All the sweet romantic notions in the world are paling beside the simple logistics of everyday life. 

The house? Would you laugh this time when I blush at the thought, Ray? You obviously haven't even told your mother yet, I can hardly show up on her doorstep, belongings in hand. And you must have been thinking just as I have. Realizing the consequences implicit in what we've proposed. Is this something you dare tell her? Do I even want you to? A place of our own would be no less a problem. 

Which leaves... here? 

The difference between a discreet liaison and a tawdry affair is in the heart of the participants, not the particulars of decor. Still I can hardly see you here-- I know how you hate this place. Perhaps I can find a more suitable apartment?... although the danger of discovery still makes it a reckless plan. I don't know if I can live a gamble, with the life you know and love hanging in the balance, Ray. 

With a sudden relief I remember that your mother is expecting me for dinner. I need time away from these thoughts, from the constant litany of doubt, so I head downstairs to find a cab. 

* * *

Not the wisest move on my part, was it? Why sit in the frying pan when I can leap directly into the fire? 

What is it about you that clouds my most basic thinking, Ray? 

The crisis apparently over, you meet me at the door, a mix of concern and relief on your face. You ask where I've been and I barely have time to tell you of my good fortune in finding my old apartment empty when your mother seizes me in an unexpected and quite overwhelming embrace. Over her shoulder I can see Francesca rolling her eyes and berating you for letting me return to 'that place', but the look on your face as you fend off her reproach worries me. 

Perhaps you've finally had a chance to think things through as well. 

With a terrible tightness in my chest I allow your mother to lead me into the dining room and before I know it dinner is in full swing-- grown siblings sparring like children again, small children loudly demanding attention, food in every direction, utter chaos.... 

And I love it, Ray. A secret part of my heart now calls this home too. 

Although it would hurt terribly to lose this acceptance, the place I have here, I can't even imagine what it would be like for you. I never want you to have to know. 

And even if your family could somehow manage to accept this, accept us, what of their friends, their neighbours. Would we be asking them to live with the consequences of our relationship too? Can we do that? 

My half-formed fears of this morning that we would give ourselves away with a look, a reaction, are eased. Francesca obviously suspects nothing, at least, and returns to aiming her unsubtle flirting my direction as if I had never left. Even Maria's pointed reference to a current boyfriend doesn't break her stride. 

I find myself responding with a smooth combination of obtuseness and deflection that impresses even me. Although it probably doesn't show, the nervousness, the discomfort I once felt at such come-ons is gone. Maybe it's simply in knowing where my heart lies-- in knowing for certain what I do and don't want. If nothing else, loving you has given me that confidence, Ray. 

I catch your eye after one of her more transparent attempts and we exchange a secret look of amusement, of knowing. But you turn away at a comment from your mother and I can see that you look at her with a sadness, a worry. 

And I feel a coldness seep into my chest. This isn't going to work, is it, Ray? It was a pretty dream, a _beautiful_ dream. But now it's morning and it's time to wake up. 

I reassure everyone that Dief is indeed on his way-- drawing an indecipherable look from you that only tightens my chest more. Any questions about Linda or my reasons for returning are quickly put down by your mother, scolding sternly in the name of tact and consideration of my feelings. 

I can't do it, Ray. 

I can't take this from you. I of all people know how much it hurts to become _persona non grata_ in your own home, to see looks that were once filled with camaraderie turn cold and hostile. If it kills me, I can't ask you to give that up for me. 

Someday you'd end up hating me for it. I'd end up hating myself. 

Dinner's over and I don't know whether to be glad for the end of this silent torture, or miserable at the approach of the inevitable. 

I thank your mother for her hospitality and, as if in a dream... or is it the surreal and inescapable slow-motion of a nightmare?... hear you reaching for your keys and announcing your intention to drive me home. 

Like always. But not like always. 

Oh, Ray, I don't think I can do this.... 

_< finis>_

* * *

_(Ack!!! Wait! Wait! Put down those pitchforks! Remember: if you kill  
me *now*, there's no more story. Riiiight???)_

Dianne  
_"Just call me Scheherazade..." <g>_  
Dianne la Mercenaire... -*- <cat.goddess@pobox.com>  
Vanity Web Page-- http://moonlight.dreamhost.com/lamerc/  
"I had to. I was depressed. When depressed, we must dance and throw a party." -- Chris 


End file.
